A tad past midnight, she got up for a glass of water.
Soon as she stepped inside the kitchen, she heard a sound––something being dragged.
She switched the light on.
Behind the humble, lovely Christmas tree she had managed to put together something moved. It looked like a person.
“Who’s there?” she called timidly, and the Christmas tree shook. “Hey!” she whispered-shouted, more out of fright than bravery. “I can see you! Who are you? What do you want?”
She reached for a knife, her heart trying to rip free from her chest. “Come out!”
This time the Christmas tree shook harder, and a couple of ornaments fell to the floor.
“I’m coming out,” a deep, melodic voice said. “But please put that knife down.”
“No,” she said, her knuckles white from clutching the knife.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my house? Why are you dressed like that? How did you get in?” He looked towards the chimney.
“The chimney? What about it?… Huh? Speak!”
“I came in through there,” he said shyly.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“No,” he said. “I’m not.”
She scoffed. “So, you’re saying that you’re him?”
“I am,” he said.
She laughed. “That is ridiculous. Who are you really?” she said, inadvertently wielding the knife in the air. “Talk or I’ll call the police right now.”
“The knife, please?”
“I won’t put it down unless you tell me who you really are.”
“OK. Fair enough.” He held his empty, white-gloved hands out in front of him. “Can I show you something?”
She nodded.
“OK, good. Now,” he said, carefully phrasing his words, “remember all the things your daughter asked for Christmas––have you gotten any of those yet?”
“Of course, I remember,” she snorted. “But no, I didn’t buy anything yet… and I don’t think I will—I don’t have any money.”
This last she said rather ashamed.
“Nothing to be ashamed of, Betty,” he said, picking up a big, red velvety-looking bag off the floor. “Look, I have some things here for you. Can I open it?”
“OK, go ahead,” she said. “And how do you know my name?”
He smiled. “I just do.”
He opened the bag and out came all the things Betty’s daughter had asked Santa for in her letter. There was a camera, some magic pens, the stickers she had talked about so much, a basketball, a pair of sneakers—everything!
But how is it possible? He is not real, is he?
“How could this be? Are you really Him?”
He nodded. “I am, Betty.”
Tears flooded her eyes.
“You’re going to make your daughter very happy.”
At once, she dropped the knife and ran up to hug him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
He laughed.
“But tell me,” she said, drying up her tears with the back of her hand. “Why do they make us believe you’re not real?”
At the question, his face adopted a gentle, fatherly expression.
“Well,” he said. “If they all knew I’m real, they would never work hard for anything, would they? They’d just sit around and wait for me to show up and give them what they want.”
She nodded, fully captivated by his words.
“Ease, Betty…,” he continued. “Ease is a greater threat to progress than hardship––you always remember that.”
“I know that!” she said. “At least I think I do. But I would actually feel much better knowing that you’re out there. It would make me feel stronger. Life is really hard sometimes, you know, and I don’t think I can keep going on like this forever—I feel like a failure all the time!”
“But you’re not, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re brave and so is your daughter. You just have to keep working, keep learning, keep growing, alright? Well, I have to get going,” he said, then leaned forward to give her one last hug. “Merry Christmas!”
“Wait, don’t go!”
“I have to.”
“Will I see you again?”
“I don’t know.”
“Will I remember you?”
“Not exactly. But every now and then, whenever you feel you need someone to lean on, you will somehow know I’m around.”
“How?”
“You just will. Trust me,” he said with the kindest smile she had ever seen, and then vanished into thin air.
She stood there, crying her eyes out, merrily. She felt invincible.
She went back to bed next to her daughter and had the best sleep she’d had in years.
Hi! If you’ve read so far, I got something else for you. In case you need something to counter the overly sweet taste in your mouth from this story — here’s a microfiction I recenlty posted in my Notes, inspired by a lovely painting by Maggie Stiefvater.
Bad Christmas
Grandma sprang out of her swing and dashed inside, yelling, “My pies, my pies!”
I was out in the front yard, playing with my truck. We’d just arrived that morning. Mom had gone into the city to get a Christmas tree last minute, but Grandma insisted I stay behind and keep her company.
I ran up the porch steps and followed Grandma inside. “Grandma, wait!”
A whirlwind of smoke flooded the kitchen.
“Grandma, where are you?”
“Get out, boy! Go get help.”
“Grandma, no!” I cried out.
“Go!”
I bolted, my legs swinging, blurred like light.
Mr. Thompson’s Market was the closest to the house.
I flung the door open. “Grandma!” I wheezed. “Fire!” I pointed.
“What! You okay? You’re Susan Joad’s kid, aren’t ya?”
“Grandma’s house is on fire!” I screamed.
Mr. Thompson ran outside—me a long ways behind him, a jabbing pain at my side.
When I got there, Mr. Thompson and Grandma were lying in the front yard; he was kissing her on the lips and she didn’t seem to mind.
He turned to look at me.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Mom’s car drove off the road and crashed against the fence. She ran towards us.
Behind her, through the fading cloud of dust I saw it—an ugly and stupid Christmas tree.
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A bit corny, in my opinion, but maybe It's just me, not buying into the whole Santa good-will humbug. I must be spoiled goods.